


5 Questions the (rogue) Avengers Asked Themselves and the 1 Question an (actual) Avenger Asked Outloud

by dls



Series: We Were Young Once, Full of Violence (now you're silent, and I'm breathing the cold) [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1, Civil War Team Iron Man, Friendship, Gen, Hypocrisy, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Regrets, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Trust Issues, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dls/pseuds/dls
Summary: The quiet and stillness of Wakanda provided the perfect opportunity for the rogue Avengers to gather their thoughts and plan their next moves. But first, some questions that needed to be answered.





	

**Author's Note:**

> When I first started this little 5+1 series, I chose the format for its brevity because I was basically writing 6 short scenes, maybe 1000 words max - perfect for my short attention span and limited free time. I have no idea how it turned into this 5500+ words _beast_ (by my standards). I've been tinkering with it for days and finally decided to just post it because the word count keeps climbing. 
> 
> On one hand, I really wanted to highlight the general stupidity of Team Cap and yell at them a little. On the other hand, I also wanted to make connections within canon and see what underlying reasons they may have had. It ended up closer to the second option, but they also did a bit of yelling at themselves (and Steve) so yay for compromise.
> 
> Beta-ed by [Arboreal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arboreal).

**One.**

Wanda was shaking uncontrollably, anger and fear driving her power but leaving her no way to steer it. Dimly, she was aware that Scott had yelped when he had gotten too close, but she couldn't spare any focus to figure out what had happened, not when she could feel the scorching tendrils on and  _in_  her skin.

Sam was whispering empty reassurances, posture calculatedly relaxed, eyes alert, and from a good distance away. Scott was on the floor, in his Ant Man suit, unnaturally still with traces of her power sparking periodically along his prone form.

_If you do this, they will never stop being afraid of you._

"Don't be afraid, please don't be afraid." She sobbed, voice muffled behind the hands covering her face.

"Help me not be afraid, Wanda." Sam said, cautious and careful and setting her on edge. "Help me help you, okay? Just stop this and we can figure it out. We'll be okay, but you have to stop whatever this is, alright?"

_I can't control their fear. Only my own._

Wanda felt a flare of annoyance, manifesting itself as a crackle that sent Sam scrambling back a step. She was not responsible for his fear, or anyone else's, only her own. Except she wasn't in control of her fear either. She had thought she was, when adrenaline was high and the avalanche of events forced her to run on survival instinct. But here in Wakanda, there was no such frenzy to distract her and her days were spent with thoughts of terror of what she was becoming.

_What she had already become._

She didn't know how to stop and that was the crux of the problem _._  Her control was tenuous at best and nonexistent at worst. Lagos was an example of both, her shaky hold on the bomb slipping away until it was gone. Guilt froze her mid-tremor and chilled her frantic thoughts.

Wanda jumped when Sam spoke again. "You're doing great, Wanda. Keep doing what you're doing."

If only he knew. She wasn't visualizing a day at the beach or breathing in sync with her heartbeat. She was cataloging the damage she had wrought and lives she had taken.  _So many, too many_.

Her power was red. She was called the Scarlet Witch. Everything about Wanda had a bloody tinge.

_We try to save as many people as we can. Sometimes that doesn't mean everybody, but if we can't find a way to live with that... Next time, maybe nobody can be saved._

Wanda had tried to be okay with the lives lost during a mission, but she couldn't. Wouldn't. Because  _Pietro_ died in battle, to save Clint and the young boy named Costel. One life for two. He had died a hero, but Wanda would rather he lived even if that meant no one else was saved. Her brother's death would never be something she could live with, it would never be  _acceptable_. Steve's earnest words brought her comfort for a short while, but to believe in them the way Steve did would have cheapened Pietro's death.

She wondered, brokenly, if  _being_ , or  _wanting_  to be, okay with death was why people feared her, feared them, enough to construct a figurative collar that later turned literal during her time at the Raft.

The realization stunned her, giving her a moment of fleeting clarity she hadn't had. The crimson lightning faded away, much like it had done when her power were suppressed.

"Great, that was great." Sam clapped, aiming for encouragement but achieving condescension instead. "I knew you could do it."

"I'd like to go lie down." Wanda whispered, stiffly uncurling herself from her position on the floor and mechanically walking toward her room.

Sam nodded, crouching to check on Scott, but she could feel his eyes on her back as she managed to force her feet to carry her away. 

Wanda stood outside her room. She had suspected this was another prison for a while, movement restricted and communication limited, but had held out hope because she refused to believe she had destroyed the closest place and person,  _Vision_ , she had considered home only to end up back at square one.

News of Natasha's captivity confirmed her worst fear – she had traded one prison for another  _again_.

Turning the handle, she opened the door just wide enough for her to slip into the darkened, nondescript room. It wasn't  _her room_  the way the one in the Avengers Tower had been, but it was better than the cell on The Raft. Wanda supposed she should be grateful, but all she felt was bitterness as the definitive click of the door closing echoed in her ears.

_Will I ever be free?_

 

**Two.**

Sam checked Scott's pulse, relieved to find the other man still alive. His shoulders slumped, the lingering fear and rushing relief left him feeling exhausted. He had only been in the field with Wanda a handful of missions and they were usually separated due to their different skillsets. The few times he had seen her use her magic were brief or from afar, and he had thought her powers were awesome and they were lucky to have her on the team.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

The way Wanda had sparked and shook like a livewire was unnerving. Sam twitched in sympathy, remembering the way the red strands struck indiscriminately and ruthlessly, as he slid a bunched-up jacket under Scott's head. Settling into the couch with a heavy sigh, Sam turned his gaze toward the ceiling and wished for some company. Different company.

Seeing the same people day in and day out had gotten old quickly, especially when he hadn't really known them before jumping into another one of Steve's missions to save the world.

Clint switched between humorous and hateful with startling ease and little warning. After a few friendly conversations turning to raging rants, Sam gave him a wide berth; it wasn't worth ruining his own mood, which wasn't great to begin with.

Scott was pretty easy-going, though the casual way he referenced his criminal days was a bit alarming for Sam, who had always been on the right side of the law. Though, considering they were  _international fugitives_  now, maybe Scott saw them on equal ground.

Wanda was not the quiet and shy  _kid_  Steve had described her to be. She was a ticking time bomb, he thought harshly, anxiety coursing insistently through his veins. Reluctantly, Sam was starting to see why Stark kept her confined at the Compound and, to an uncomfortable extent, why she had been collared during their time in the Raft. He still didn't agree but he did understand.

Once again, Sam wondered  _how_  Clint had broken her out of a high security tower guarded by an artificial god. Both Clint and Wanda had been vague in their recounting of her escape, or rescue depending on who was telling it. Sam hadn't pressed further at the time because of the imminent threat of more  _psycho-assassins_  looming over their heads. Thankfully only one of them remained, and he was taking a cryostasis nap in the lab downstairs.

Bucky had elected to go under until his HYDRA conditioning had been removed, a decision Sam had fully supported but Steve had not. Steve had insisted it wasn't Bucky who fought them, it was the Winter Soldier. Sam thought it was absurd how Steve couldn't see that the distinction made  _no difference_  based on the level of threat Bucky posed, a super soldier with extensive training and a set of trigger words that could turn him into a mindless assassin. Just like Steve couldn't see that labeling Wanda a  _kid_  did not diminish the destructiveness of her powers. A troubling pattern was starting to form, making Sam question how unquestioningly he had followed Steve.

Sam had believed Steve to be a good friend and a good man. He wasn't sure if he still did.

A good friend would not be willing to put Sam in potential danger to keep  _a better friend_  around. 

A good man would not have turned his back on the world for his personal gain. 

_What kind of man is Steve Rogers?_

 

**Three.**

Scott woke up to the sound of Sam snoring. Once the rest of his senses caught up with his hearing, he sat up and gingerly rolled his shoulders to ease the stiffness there. He wasn't sure how long he had been out but decided he didn't really care.

What he did care about was  _what the hell happened_.

Clint had stormed into the living room earlier that day, fuming and cursing about betrayals, lies, and bastards. It had sounded like a typical day with the archer, at first. Then they had learned Natasha was in Wakanda and had been for at least several weeks. Steve had immediately started planning a rescue, his hand shifting listlessly for a weight that wasn't there.

When Steve had come for them at the Raft, they had immediately noticed the missing shield and asked about it. Steve had shrugged and summed up what happened in Siberia with five short sentences.

"Tony came to help us. Zemo set a trap to break us from within. He brought up Tony's parents. Tony fell for it and attacked us. I disabled his suit but he took the shield."

It had seemed simple enough. Zemo was a different kind of criminal mastermind, using emotional manipulation instead of physical force as his weapon of choice. 

Stark hadn't lied to Sam about going to Siberia as a friend.

Clint had grunted out a comment about Stark being easily compromised.

Wanda had remained silent, only sound she made was a snarl as she stunned guards with her power.

Scott had stayed quiet too, but for an entirely different reason – choking on the bitter realization that Captain America wasn't telling the truth. He had spent three years in prison, reading people correctly was essential to his survival. Since his recruitment to and subsequent meeting with ‘Team Cap', he had spent an embarrassing amount of time studying Captain America, cataloging his movements and memorizing his speech patterns with the same frenzy Cassie devoted to her celebrity crush, a prepubescent boy with floppy hair. 

Steve's voice had taken on a different inflection during the last three sentences of his explanation, a small but surely noticeable to anyone who knew him. Yet when Scott had brought it up with Clint, a superspy by his own admission, he was directly rebuffed and indirectly ridiculed. Sam's reaction was gentler but the same as Clint's. They had been so certain that Steve was physically incapable of deception, so whatever tell Scott had spotted was imagined or misinterpreted.

Scott had dropped the issue as quickly as he brought it up, agreeing amicably with his new allies. Majority rule was another lesson learned in prison. Scott had nowhere to go, and it was in his best interest to stay in the Avengers' good graces even if he didn't want to share their company.

For how grand the Wakandian palace was, there was scarcely little for them to do. The gardens were readily available but Scott was never a fan of nature _._  Their designated library contained an obviously curated collection, historical texts to bore the reader to tears and lighthearted novels to distract. Their arrangement reminded him acutely of prison, an observation he kept to himself when he realized Wanda was a bit touchy about anything involving a lock.

Scott had sought out the scientists and technicians, hoping for camaraderie and conversation. He tried to suppress the memory of how he had done the same at the prison's workshop. The Wakandans hadn't been welcoming to begin with and significantly less so after Scott made some snippy remarks. Scott was ashamed to admit he took some of his frustration out on Dr. Wu because he couldn't do the same with Steve or the others.

Being around Captain America had turned Scott into a bully.

It felt like he was at once too small and too big for his skin, straining and stretching to find his place in this new life. So he had jumped at the chance to don the Ant Man suit, hoping they could regain whatever sense of fellowship he had felt at the airport. He hadn't expected Wanda to be in the middle of a  _magical crisis_ , huddled in the center of the room, when he returned.

The last thing he had done was approach her, concerned and unprepared, then a flash of red. Before everything faded to black, Scott wondered.

_What the hell did I get myself into?_

 

**Four.**

Clint was trying, unsuccessfully, to break free from the Dora Milaje's hold as they were marched like children to their rooms.  _Or prisoners to their cells._

He bit back a curse about T'Challa, the throbbing pain in his left wrist a sharp deterrent. The first time he called T'Challa a traitor, with some colorful embellishments thrown in, the Dora Milaje adjusted her grip in such a way that his wrist simultaneously flared with pain and tingled with numbness until it settled uncomfortably somewhere in between.

"Insult His Highness again and you will have no use of this hand." She hissed, the viciousness of her words combined with the flatness of her voice told Clint she meant every word.

It wasn't in his nature to back down but his training had taught him that tactical retreat was a sound strategy, so he stayed quiet and searched for moments of weakness – like turning a corner when she had to pivot her weight or nodding a greeting to another guard that divided her attention. It was supremely discouraging when none of his attempts worked, and worse yet, Steve didn't even bother to try.

Clint felt a pang of irritation toward Steve, though he knew it was misplaced. The person who truly deserved his anger was Stark, who ruined Clint's retirement by  _screwing up_  again and made it impossible for Clint to see  _his family_. But Stark wasn't in Wakanda.

Sam and Scott had started avoiding him, likely fed up with his rants. Wanda was having enough of a hard time controlling her powers without Clint bringing up Stark. Steve spent whatever time he wasn't in the basement lab at the gym, running in place on a treadmill with unfocused eyes.

It was all wrong.

The Avengers were his family, in the way SHIELD or Laura and the kids hadn't been.

SHIELD gave him a purpose and skills but everything was detached and impersonal. Laura and the kids showed him that he  _could_  love, but he had to give up a part of himself. 

The Avengers allowed him to have both and Clint felt happier and more at peace in the tower's  _vents_  than he did spending time with his kids. He had never dared share this with Laura, whose love for their children far outweighed the support she had for his  _job_. Though it was never a job for Clint.

Clint had thought he would be happy in Wakanda with his team and a mission to keep the heroes free of government agendas. Yet he spent his days feeling alone and aimless. He hated Stark for breaking them. The hairline cracks from Ultron continued to grow until they exploded into jagged shards at The Raft.

Stark had created Ultron, unleashed a killer robot whose sole objective was to cleanse the earth of the human race. It wasn't easy but Clint found a way to forgive  _after he made sure Stark knew how badly he messed up._  Forgiveness couldn't and shouldn't be given freely. The consequences of their actions were too far-reaching to be swept under the rug of friendship.

There was one night, when they had ran into each other in the common kitchen, eyes haunted by nightmarish memories. Over a bottle of whiskey, they had talked about anything and nothing. Toward the end of their conversation, the artificial drowsiness of inebriation creeping up, Clint had been ready to tell the other man that they were all good and he wasn't solely responsible for Ultron – Bruce was there too, after all. Of course Stark had chosen that moment to blurt out that he might have been mind-controlled or given false visions before Ultron's activation.

An obvious ploy and convenient excuse to shift accountability.

The confession,  _a lie_ , had enraged Clint. He had stormed off after throwing the empty bottle at the window – the same one Stark had been thrown out of, by Loki, who had made Hawkeye his puppet but couldn't with Iron Man.

Stark had been unbearably smug when he announced that Loki's scepter had no effect on him because of his superior physical and mental prowess. That comment, said casually and gleefully, had plagued Clint for  _months_.

If Stark had been able to resist, then it stood to reason Clint should have been able to as well. 

 _Yet Clint hadn't_.

It took four therapists and nearly a year before Clint forgave Stark for his careless words and started working on his underlying control and inferiority issues. It took six months to forgive Stark for Ultron, a sign that Clint was making progress. But he wasn't sure how long it would take for him to forgive Stark for their current predicament, if he ever could.

Clint tried to bury whatever friendship they shared with tirades and diatribes but he could also see Dr. Gilmore, the only therapist Clint hadn't wanted to punch, shaking his head and saying this was avoidance behavior.

With those words ringing in his mind and more free time than he knew what to do with, Clint started reviewing the events and examining the details leading up to the airport, mapping out a sequence like Dr. Gilmore had shown him.

But he didn't like what he found.

So he returned to anger, his one constant and comfort. Learning about Tasha's capture was excellent timing, he needed his friend and a chance to break something so he could silence the question ricocheting in his head.

_Was it really all Tony's fault?_

 

**Five.**

Natasha had envisioned at least ten different ways her reunion with the Avengers could go, yet when faced with the actual opportunity, she found herself rooted outside the door leading to their wing of the palace. She named the emotions  _guilt shame anger_ tumbling through her body, making her sway and shifting her weight to maintain an appearance of calm. She had no doubt that Okoye saw through her disguise.

Over the period of her incarceration, Natasha had developed a sort of grudging respect for the Dora Milaje. They were efficient, ruthless, and loyal. 

Natasha had lived many lives and ended even more, both as an operative of the Red Room and SHIELD. Identities were shed like clothes, which was why she was caught entirely off guard when her role as a member of the Avengers molded to her like a pair of threadbare sweats she wanted to keep. 

Clint likely shared the same sentiment, though they hadn't discussed it outright as that wasn't their style. They were experts at gathering information, either with words or fists, from reluctant individuals. It was no wonder their habits carried into their personal lives, treating all freely offered information with an unhealthy dose of skepticism.

Tony was a prime example. Bombastic declarations masked a lifetime of insecurity. Crude humor belied a near-crippling emotional depth. Belittling condescension hid a desperate need for friendship. Natasha saw through his disguises, and used the information she gleamed to her advantage. He was the mark, after all.

After New York, she had felt the stirring of something in her chest. She might have called it  _guilt_  except she knew the Red Room had removed that particular emotion from her a long time ago. She had settled for being  _compromised_ , and doubled her efforts to remain objective.

In retrospect, her objectivity had been anything but. She had over-corrected and veered straight into critical hypocrisy rife with contradictions – demanding straight answers when she sidestepped every inquiry, casting Tony as the puppet master while dismissing him as a pawn, and offering to stand by his side then threatening him days later.

_I'm not the one that needs to watch their back._

If Tony was the rule, then Steve was the exception.

Captain America was the embodiment of earnestness. Natasha had studied his breathing, his movements, and his speech pattern; she concluded that Steve only spoke the truth and was a horribly obvious liar. It was comforting to be around Steve, to know his words were his feelings and his actions were his beliefs. It wasn't until Germany when she realized that truth could be subjective.

Personal truths should not be taken as universal facts. Steve was not a man of honesty, he was a man of conviction – it took Natasha  _shamefully_  long to learn the difference.

By then, she had resigned to the fact that she could not break Steve's dedication to Bucky.

 _He wasn't going to stop_.

Okoye broke her out of her reverie with a none-too-gentle push toward the door. "Your hesitation is uncharacteristic and timewasting."

"I don't know what is waiting behind this door." Natasha replied, offering honesty without prompting. A sizeable step toward the significant goal of  _making amends_.

Okoye's response was to open the door with a spiteful amount of decisiveness. "Now you know."

Natasha watched the door swing open the same way she tracked the trajectory of a bullet. She resisted the urge to dodge as she stepped over the threshold.

Sam startled awake, wiping absentmindedly at his chin and catching his breath. Scott barely shifted from his position on the floor, nodding out a halfhearted greeting.

"Welcome back, I guess?" Sam started, blinking sleep from his eyes. "Where're Cap and Clint?"

Natasha quirked an eyebrow at Sam's comment. There was no welcome to be had in Wakanda but she had let him hold on to that delusion for a bit longer. "I haven't seen those two idiots since Germany, though I expect them to join us soon." The timing of her release was suspicious, to say the least.

T'Challa wanted them to overstep, practically goading Steve and Clint, and possibly Scott based on his attire, into action.

She was proven correct when Steve and Clint stormed in a few minutes later, though she found no joy in her small victory.

"Nat!" Clint enveloped her in an aggressive embrace, knocking the breath out of her and nearly bruising her ribs.

"Good to see you here." Steve smiled, tired but pleased. He was the only one in the room with a genuine sort of happiness. 

Natasha observed Steve, careful to disregard any preconceived notions. He was pleased that another member of his team had joined them, she deduced. He thought her presence was a vote of confidence supporting his stance regarding the Accords and he believed himself to be their leader still.

_How can you be our leader when we've never been a team?_

 

**One.**

Bruce tugged nervously at the loose thread hanging from his well-weathered jacket, working up the courage to walk through the gleaming double doors of the newly renamed Stark Tower. The reflection in the pristine glass showed his disheveled state, and he ceased his twitching fingers in an effort to preserve one of the few garments he still owned.

Self-imposed exile did not include many luxuries, extra changes of clothes being one of them. 

After Ultron, Bruce had wanted to  _disappear_. After the encounter with the Scarlet Witch - he could not and would not say her name - the Hulk had wanted to as well.

It might have been the first time they had ever agreed.

Bruce left with a speed and stealth that shouldn't have been possible under the crushing weight of his guilt.

Freedom. He had felt free for the first time in a long while, reveling in the joy of science and the peace of belonging. It came with a cost, though, one that others paid. Bruce had designed his own punishment, torturing himself with the appearance of freedom, travelling from country to country, when he could never return to the one place he longed to be.

What was freedom if you could not go where you truly desired?

Bruce was in Siberia when he realized something had gone horribly wrong in his absence. He had looked up during one of many meditative walks and stilled painfully when he saw the sky fill with Stark aircraft.

It took him far longer than he had liked to make his way out of the wilderness and find access to technology with shaking fingers. The information he found did little to answer his questions and nothing to disperse his worries. The Other Guy banged on his cage when they saw the name Ross.

Bruce's first reaction was to hunt Tony down and shake some sense into his friend. The Hulk, on the other hand, was  _sad_. This reversal of their usual feelings toward emotional matters cooled his rage.

"Metal man friend." His other half mumbled dejectedly.

"I know, that's why it hurts so much." Bruce did his best to hide his disgust at Tony's alliance with Ross.

The Hulk continued as though he hadn't heard, "Metal man Tony's friend. Tony sad too."

 _Rhodes._ The Hulk meant Rhodes, whom Bruce had forgotten about. Shame tasted like bile in his mouth.

He thought about the last time he had seen the colonel, leaning casually against the center island in their common kitchen and debating whether there was a market for bacon flavored coffee beans. Tony had deemed it the natural next step from the various flavored coffees, Rhodes had declared it an abomination. Bruce had sipped his tea and tried to soak up as much of the camaraderie as possible before his departure.

He thought about Tony, now, in the tower that Bruce considered the closest thing to home –  _alone_. The sympathy for his friend took on a sharper edge when he remembered the news story about a  _crater_ burning through multiple floors of the compound he hadn't set foot in, with several quotes from the staff who were unlucky enough to be on schedule that night. 

 _The Scarlet Witch_.

The Hulk snarled and Bruce's vision tinted green.

They had made her an Avenger, despite of the horrors she had perpetrated, in Bruce's absence. They had allowed her out in the field, without an appropriate period of observation and training. They had portrayed her as a victim of Ultron, when Bruce knew bitterly how she had victimized others, how she had invaded their minds.

Tony had mentioned the nightmarish vision he had seen, one morning after a long stretch of sleepless nights. He had said he originally considered it an extension of a flashback of his time beyond the portal, but the appearance didn't match up to his usual traumatic dreams – a blurred, almost pixelated, edge clouded the horrors he had seen - and felt  _manufactured_ , photo-shopped.

Bruce had been more concerned about his friend's slurred speech and bloodshot eyes, and the rising guilt flooding him because he had just packed his bag, than his words. In an effort to stifle his need to help Tony, one that was quickly overtaking his need to run, Bruce had suggested Clint as someone to speak with. He wondered how that conversation turned out. Not that it mattered, now.

What did matter was Bruce's selfishness, his cowardice, and his atonement.

_He ran, he hid, but no more._

It took weeks to make his way across the Trans-Siberian Railway and arrive at Moscow. Bruce had depleted most of his resources by then, and he hoped fervently that Tony's offer of  _always having a way home_  was still valid as he approached a counter in the Sheremetyevo International Airport. Bruce felt like he could finally breathe properly when he learned he had a standing ticket to New York reserved under his name with all available airlines.

His trip to New York was exponentially more accommodating than his previous travels, but he could appreciate none of the comforts.

Taking a fortifying breath, Bruce entered the building and approached the elevator leading to the upper floors. His keycard failing to grant him access was unexpected and he faltered in his certainty that he still had Tony's friendship.

"Dr. Banner. Please remain in the lobby. Boss will be down shortly." FRIDAY's voice sounded through the speakers next to the access panel, cold in a way that was more similar to resentful than robotic.

Thankfully, for the sake of Bruce's fraying nerves and The Big Guy's thinning patience, Tony strolled out of the elevator minutes later.

"Bruce." Tony's voice carried the same icy quality as FRIDAY's.

Bruce wondered if the cause was anger or pain. He recalled paparazzi footage of a disabled Iron Man suit, presumably with its creator inside, being rushed out of a Stark helicopter and into a hospital. "Tony, it's good to see you. Finally. Um, thanks for the ticket. The flight was good, they gave me extra blankets. It's good to see you, oh, I already said that."

If Tony was charmed by his stammered greeting, he didn't show it. "Hm."

"I'm sorry." He blurted out, taking the other man's lifted eyebrow as encouragement. "I'm sorry I left after Ultron, left you to handle the mess."  _I'm sorry they left too_.

"You know, I was once told that running away just prolongs the problem." Tony said, a glint of something vicious and vulnerable in his eyes. "Well, when I say once..."

Bruce barely suppressed a grimace, recalling all the times he had lectured Tony about hiding in his lab. He wanted to apologize, to justify his hypocrisy as concern, but that wouldn't repair the damage between them. Instead he settled for facts. "You didn't run. They did."

"Maybe I was too slow. No one gave me a head start." Tony curved his lips in a cruel mimic of what could have been a smile, but the act more resembled a wolf bearing his fangs. "But I'll give you one,  _science bro_  and all."

Bruce's flinch had all the violence of a cracked whip. "You already gave me a way home. I'm done running."

"You haven't even heard the other side yet." At last, a thaw in Tony's wintry demeanor. A crack to show the depth of the betrayal, the extent of the doubt, and the severity of the pain.

"I don't need to." Bruce stated, willing his friend to believe. "I've done my own research. The Accords are good in theory but need a bit of work before it can be put in practice, work you've been doing. I'll admit seeing Ross anywhere near it made me, er, a bit green." He raised a hand, preempting Tony's question. "The Other Guy actually calmed  _me_  down. He was more worried for Rhodes."

"Oh." Tony exhaled, pleased and surprised. "That's, um, nice of him."

"He considers you a friend, Tony. And I do too." Sensing he was making progress, Bruce pressed on. "You were, are, right. We needed accountability, oversight, protocol. A vetting process."

Tony's improved mood vanished as he hissed, "Maximoff."

A tense nod was the only sign Bruce gave to indicate he agreed. "They ran instead of dealing with the problems we all had a hand in creating, instead of staying to face the consequences. So no, I don't need to hear their side, not when they took the coward's way out and left you with the mess. They should have listened to you, at the very least."

"Probably didn't want to inflate my  _ego_ further, because then they'd need to pop it." Bitterness coated every word. " _Again_."

"Tony." Bruce said, hands twitching with the need to show his friendship with more than just words. "You stayed, that's all the evidence I need. You're my friend and I'm sorry."

"I thought we were more than friends, Brucie Bear."

"Science bros for life." Finally, Bruce felt a glimmer of hope and held out a shaking fist in invitation. He nearly collapsed with relief when Tony bumped his fist gently against Bruce's.

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," Tony shrugged, slowly as though it pained him. "Sounds nice though."

Bruce realized, belatedly and protectively, that it probably did. "Yeah." He said gently. "The Other Guy wants a fist bump too, when you're up for it."

Tony snorted, amusement shining though. "Sure, as long as he knows it's not ‘smash'. These ribs aren't what they used to be."

Green clouded the edge of his vision, but Bruce pushed it aside. "He knows."

"Well, don't just stand there. C'mon up, you stink so bad I don't even know how they let you board the plane and not consider you a chemical weapon." Tony turned, his usual grace missing from the measured movement. "FRIDAY will get you a new card today." A smile brightened Tony's face, the light chasing away the last of Bruce's dark doubts and fears.

"Already done, Boss." The warmth was back in her voice. "Welcome back, Dr. Banner."

"It's good to be back." Bruce followed Tony into the elevator with a lightness in his step. "So, after my decontamination shower, what can I do to help?" 

**Author's Note:**

> [dls-ao3.tumblr.com](https://dls-ao3.tumblr.com/)


End file.
